


The Sun Rises In The East (Prologue)

by anticommute



Series: A Song For The Moon [1]
Category: B1A4
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Historical Fantasy, M/M, idk enough about korean history :(, it's rly some weird blend that leads more to china than korea sry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-21
Updated: 2014-10-21
Packaged: 2018-02-22 00:18:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,196
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2487485
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anticommute/pseuds/anticommute
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They spoke of it the way all things were spoken of - with perfunctory importance, hailed and regaled at the time, and doomed to be forgotten, lost in the sea of words and conversation given enough time.</p><p>A man had died.</p><p>Fantasy AU. Jindeul. Prologue. (i hope, heavens help me)</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Sun Rises In The East (Prologue)

They spoke of it the way all things were spoken of - with perfunctory importance, hailed and regaled at the time, and doomed to be forgotten, lost in the sea of words and conversation given enough time. Whether that time was seconds or days, perhaps even years, that would vary, but now that, that had nothing to do with the way it was spoken. No, the nuances lay with the speaker, with those who told the tale, with what they said, or more tellingly, what they did not say.

A man had died. That much was agreed on. Some said he was a great man, others simply noted that he was a man, while a few others believed the world better to have been rid him. As was the case with all men. All that could be noted was that those in the last category were few, and this, perhaps, was enough to signal that he was indeed, if not a great man, then a good one. Some reported correctly the manner in which he had died, while others spun tales that they had either heard or imagined, while still others brushed it away as inconsequential. It had not, Jinyoung knew, been inconsequential.

Those who knew him might have overlooked the man seated in the corner. A handsome young man, although one not unused to being called pretty, or weak looking, or feminine, usually by those with whom he had no love lost. A slim face with thin eyes, counterset by a thick neck on a narrow body. Pale skinned, despite the travel, but there were some men who simply did not brown easily. He had arrived with a companion, not unusual, and in front of them had been placed good wine, also not unusual. In fact, there was nothing unusual about the either of them. Two travelers, perhaps a merchant and his guard, seated in an inn, listening to the tales that were told when alcohol flowed freely. The companion, at the moment, had retired to the rooms they had rented for the night, leaving him alone, to drink and listen. It had been some weeks now, since a man had died. The tale had changed in those weeks and would change more - this too, Jinyoung knew. Here, however, a good few weeks ride away, the tale was still fresh and had taken on little embellishment that he had not heard already. Here, they mentioned that a man had died, that he had fallen off his horse, and, most tellingly, they did not, in connection to the man’s death, mention a once favoured prince. Nor did they lampoon said prince, for which Jinyoung was grateful.

Of course, here, so far away from the glories of civilization, there were things to care about beyond princes, both those dead and alive. Trade, bandits, the marriage of the weaver’s daughter. Less poetry, less song. His heart ached for the loss, but understood the necessity. It had been this way for some days now, and satisfied with what he had heard, Jinyoung scraped back his chair and stood.

He took the stairs with an uneasy heart, but one that was lighter than it had been in days.

Jinyoung had known the man who had died, known him more than most would’ve known him. Jaewook had been both brother and cousin, and just as their shared blood had brought them together, it had rent them apart. Jaewook had, indeed, fallen from his horse. Jinyoung had, indeed, been in the same hunting party, although he had not been present at the time of the accident. Nor had he been present immediately after, as they had then come upon the bandits.

But it was also true that Jaewook had been heir. It was also true that Jinyoung had been heir, after Jaewook. A throne could change a man, they said. They murmured. Jinyoung mourned for Jaewook, but mourning did little good when one was dead as well.

His companion looked up when he opened the door.

Immediately, as he had, every night since they had set out, his companion came to him as soon as the door had shut and they were alone. His eyes, as always, were filled with a worry that lended to Jinyoung’s lips an amused quirk.

"I’m fine, Junghwan." Jinyoung locked the door behind him.

His companion, a young man not much younger than himself, did not seem to believe him. His lips were pursed, and he looked Jinyoung over, needing to ascertain for himself that Jinyoung was, indeed, fine. Jinyoung didn’t know what Junghwan was looking for, had asked, maybe six days ago now, and had simply received a strange look in return.

Death could change a man. Even now, Junghwan worried that it had changed him.

But, tonight, satisfied with whatever it was he saw, Junghwan nodded. “My lord.”

Death, both near and caused. Jinyoung had killed a man that day, had killed several. There had been no choice, yet even so, Junghwan worried. It had been Jinyoung's first kill, but there had been little time to contemplate the morals of bloodying his blade. If he had taken a life, then so be it. Yet Junghwan, a young soldier who had once saved Jinyoung’s life and had been rewarded by being elevated to the station of Jinyoung’s own personal body guard, worried. It had been a selfish thing, far more for Jinyoung than for Junghwan. Junghwan’s life would likely have been far more peaceful had Jinyoung simply sent him away with thanks and gold, but in some ways, Jinyoung could be selfish.

He drew Junghwan to him then, sliding hands under robes and pushing them off Junghwan’s shoulders. Jinyoung did not miss the flinch in Junghwan’s expression, but nor did he acknowledge it. Junghwan had, once, long ago - they had both, since that time, ignored it.

"My lord," Junghwan murmured. His eyes were deflected downward, shaded by his eyelashes. Such pretty lashes, Jinyoung mused, as he did each time. Such a soft face, such kind eyes.

Junghwan's clothes, already loosened, perhaps for bed, slid away easily, baring his shoulders. The young man clearly shivered, once, his own lips quirking in amused acknowledgment. Jinyoung, torn between gazing longer upon his face and gathering him towards his own body was overwhelmed by the desire for the latter, and he did so, feeling Junghwan's warmth pressed against his own chest, the solid muscles in Junghwan's back and shoulders under his hands. He felt those muscles shift under skin, that thin layer of which held together their bodies over bone, before he felt the hands which crept up his own back. Junghwan rested his cheek against Jinyoung's shoulder, and Jinyoung raised one hand to caress his fingers through Junghwan's hair.

It had been long days, weeks. The sensation of warmth seemed almost foreign in its familiarity. Perhaps Junghwan was thinking the same thing, his breath warm and moist against Jinyoung's neck.

"To bed, my love?" Jinyoung murmured.

And, for the first time since that man had died, they did, and they took comfort in being alive, and in the other being alive, and in the warmth that could be found therein.


End file.
